


You're First

by theoldgods



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation Interruptus, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-The Final Problem, Sex Pollen, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-18 15:35:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10619904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theoldgods/pseuds/theoldgods
Summary: Eurus's darts were loaded with rather more than just an anesthetic, though her final experiment doesn't take hold until Mycroft and Sherlock are alone with only their tortured thoughts—and each other—for company





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HBingo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HBingo/gifts).



> Written for HBingo for Smut Swap 2017. Spoilers for "The Final Problem" within. This has been casually Britpicked, but feel free to point out any remaining Brit vocab issues in the comments. A couple links on references are in the endnotes for the curious.
> 
> (This does indeed contain explicit sexual contact between siblings, in case someone somehow missed that in the tags.) 
> 
> Feel free to follow/scroll through/contact me at [my tumblr](http://theoldgods.tumblr.com), if that's your speed. 
> 
> Happy Smut Swap to all!

The itching began while Mycroft was seated on the floor of the shower, letting the water scald his shoulders and back until everything else was as chaotically numb as his mind. Tiny ripples of heat sparking in his loins and rushing upward were thus unpleasantly distracting, some morbid reminder of the body he still had, despite everything of the past twelve or so hours. The prickling reminded him of Eurus’s dart in his neck, the sting and the rush of black and white around the edges of his vision as Sherlock clenched the gun all the tighter, coming to face to face with glass and knowing exactly, _exactly_ where she had put him to meditate on his sins and the death of his brother.

Said brother was still perched on the edge of his dining room table, swinging his legs back and forth, when Mycroft emerged from the shower, draped in his richest dressing gown and itching against every thread of it.

“Go home, Sherlock.”

His voice was hoarse. Sherlock whistled and smiled grimly as he placed his phone screen-down against the table.

“You’re not supposed to leave a suicidal patient alone.”

Mycroft felt the sneer stretching his lips, much as he felt himself nonetheless powerless to stop it, as he had been with everything that had happened of late.

“Blind leading the fucking blind.”

Sherlock’s eyebrow rose. “You _are_ tired. Do go to bed, darling dearest. I’ll be here when you wake up. ‘ _Yes, I know, Sherlock, that’s what I’m afraid of.’_ Well, better me than little sis, wouldn’t you say?”

There was something unnerving in Sherlock’s breathy impression of him, just as there was in his ability to remain entirely his normal obnoxious self, under the circumstances. Mycroft, skin still pulled taut with the heat of the shower and the itchiness of his robe, considered four or five retorts before leaving Sherlock to watch over the house from his perch. He fell into bed with his head pounding behind his temples, expecting to lie awake until Sherlock got bored and left.

Instead there was adult Eurus, her curtain of dark hair spread around her like the train of some morbid wedding gown, passing him stones as young Sherlock and a blurry redheaded boy chased one another back and forth through the water.

“You look funny all grown up,” she said, pressing a hot stone up into his cock as he struggled to produce sound. Pain radiated outward from the touch, and she ground it in further. “Slowest, stupidest Mycroft.”

He opened his eyes to find it still dark outside and his cock tingling even harder than in the scattered world of his dreams. He brushed a hand along it and muffled a groan against his pillow—it was both intensely painful and disturbingly satisfying.

The itching did not fade as Mycroft contemplated the pillow; within five minutes it had only grown stronger, radiating upward to his nipples in a parody of the normal pattern of arousal he felt, like some overenthusiastic but strong university toff with only a vague sense of how sex was supposed to work. Worse, he appeared to be growing hard against his stomach, as if he were actually interested, and when his hips twitched, dragging his cock against the sheet, he again heard himself moan.

After everything else, after being able to fall asleep but, apparently, being denied true unconsciousness, this was the most absurdly improbable of all. There was nothing arousing about any of this—his manic sister trapped in thirty-year-old resentments, his stupidly heroic brother, his own breathtaking incompetence. And yet brushing his nipples, as he did despite all better sense, made him gasp with this hackneyed want, sent a jolt through his prick.

He would not take care of himself with Sherlock in the house, no matter how inexplicably hard his prick was.

Sherlock in the house.

Sherlock bending next to him, laughing, drawling “brother darling dearest” into his ear, his touch on Mycroft’s prick brutally rough.

Mycroft released himself as if burned, gasping. The room was as empty as ever, but the ghost Sherlock in his head was still alongside him, whispering inaudible filth as sweat dripped down Mycroft’s thigh. Mycroft flipped himself onto his back, kicking himself free of the duvet and sliding the fingers of both hands into the sheet underneath until he felt his knuckles complain. His prick throbbed against his stomach.

Sleep was clearly impossible for the moment, possibly until he could root out whatever madness had taken control of his nerves. He could always use Sherlock’s crude mind palace nonsense as a distraction, a rough workaday tool for a moment of crisis, but his mind was as rooted to description and classification as it was to disgust. The itching, though strongest in his cock and lower abdomen, was everywhere along his body by now, pleasant to the point of numbness one moment, sharp as needles the next, a distorted version of paresthesia. His shower was not hot enough to cause any of this, not hours later, and the sweat gathering at his temples and armpits and down the inside of his thighs was too systematic.

There were, he knew, no true secrets in the world, not even the existence of such a secretkeeper as he ostensibly was. One code entered into his phone and several military intelligence branches would be on high alert, the spirit of Litvinenko screaming in their collective mind. Had the governor been compromised by more than just his sist—

 _How crude_.

He could almost roll his eyes at Eurus; had she been expecting them all to wake up later and— _perform_ —for her amusement? Bad enough that she should play at her twisted version of a psychologist without adding sexual arousal into the mix, like some vengeful Virginia Johnson. Equally bad, if he were honest, was the fact that realizing that she had probably drugged her darts with some stupid experimental aphrodisiac made Mycroft relax, the fingers of his right hand loosening their grip on the sheet.

_No foreign subterfuge, just my uncanny little sister wanting me to sprout an erection for her amusement._

Giving in would be rewarding bad behavior. And yet if giving in would hurry this entire morass along…

He breathed in and out as he wrapped one hand around his prick, biting his lip to hold back sound. Even the lightest touch was exquisite, among the highest quality contact he could remember, his own skin briefly comparable to the richest of silks or velvets in this heightened state. He pushed into his hands, quick and sharp, throwing his head back against his pillow.

He needed no mental images; this would be over blissfully quickly as it was. Nonetheless, with each brutal thrust, his fingers stripping his shaft, a new picture flashed across the back of his mind: the clenching cunt of his first woman, a beautiful intern’s arse, a rich waistcoat thrown across the back of a chair, a sweet rich voice whispering across the back of his neck.

_You’re perfectly absurd, pretending I’m not right outside your door._

Mycroft inhaled sharply and worked his fingers faster.

_I’m probably drugged too, you know, darted up all the same as you. Drugged and pathetically whining in the other room like the stupid schoolboy you and Mummy forced me into becoming, after you ran away from us all off into Uncle Rudy’s world like nothing had ever happened. After you let me forget._

The scorn was vicious, and in truth Mycroft, fevered and desperate, was not entirely sure whether it was Sherlock’s voice, his own, or some horrendous hybrid of the two. It was also making Mycroft harder, if such a thing were possible, and when he reached down to grip his balls, the shot of agonized delight that ran up his spine had him moaning.

_Yes, that’s it, just you alone in your little orgy of forced release. Precious Mycroft, needs no one and nothing; he can handle everything except what matters the most—_

“Mycroft?”

The sound that came out of his throat was a scream; Mycroft couldn’t deny that, even as his prick throbbed and he rolled halfway off the bed. Hot hands caught his legs, preventing him from hitting the floor.

“What in God’s name did she do to us?”

The Sherlock standing alongside his bed was entirely naked, his pale and sweaty limbs shining in the light filtering in from the hallway. His red prick arched toward his navel, where a white splatter coated his abdomen.

“Darts.” Mycroft’s voice was little more than a croak. “If Doctor Watson were here, we could be sure—”

“An experiment doomed to remain unfulfilled.” Sherlock’s smile was distracted. “Never mind that. Are you all right?”

“Says the naked postcoital man in my bedroom.”

Sherlock’s cheeks reddened. “If you’re hoping that a solid, _singular_ bout of masturbation will take care of it, brother mine, I have bad news.”

“Thank you, Ghost of Masturbation Future.” Mycroft shivered under Sherlock’s wide, sweeping gaze, his unabashed nudity. “If you’ll leave me to make my own observations—”

“Are you all right?”

“Christ, Sherlock.” Mycroft’s grip on his sanity, the subdued urge to thrust into his own hand even _now_ , was fraying with each moment his brother stood over him. “Don’t be so bloody dense. Get me a cure for this or get out.”

“What, you don’t like being _interrupted_? Fourteen-year-old me could have told you how unpleasant surprise fraternal visits are—”

“That was one time, and you were no better at locking your door then than you are at respecting locks now.”

“Your door wasn’t locked, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice had gone entirely too soft. “I think when someone you’re supposed to be watching over starts moaning loudly, you’re entitled to do a welfare check.”

The itch was rising again along Mycroft’s skin, though his prickled horror was fading, to be replaced with something watery and nebulous and not to be examined directly. “Most nurses aren’t naked on their rounds.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Are you all right?”

“If it will stop your bleating—yes, aside from being horrendously chemically aroused, I am fine.”

Sherlock laughed. Mycroft dragged the discarded duvet back over himself, pulling away from Sherlock.

“You’re dogged, I’ll give you that. But you’ve been hiding our sister from me for something like thirty years, and it all blew up in your face rather impressively, so I’d gather that you’re something _not good_ at the moment, drug or no drug.”

“Oh, well deduced.” Mycroft closed his eyes; in the darkness he was left with sparks of arousal darting up and down his body, producing the occasional burst of white across the undersides of his eyelids. “I think this is a bad time for therapy, don’t you?”

The duvet slid off him again, bringing in a rush of cool air. Sherlock’s hand on Mycroft’s bare chest was a brand, slippery with sweat, viciously hot, curiously paralyzing. It also sent a burst of relief down Mycroft’s spine.

“We need to tackle the issue of _Sis_ ’s experimentation first, I agree.” Sherlock took in an audibly shuddering breath. “If I leave you alone, will you deal with that, or will you implode?”

“I do know how to wank, Sherlock, though I’m rather surprised you still do.”

“And you’ll hide in here until you think I’ve gone because you can’t bear to face me in daylight, then pop off to some hidden lair to spend the rest of your days unmolested by _attachment_ , as penance for your varied sins over the years.” Sherlock’s hand massaged the base of Mycroft’s neck, both feverish and soothing. “Maybe take Eurus with you, may the best sibling survive.”

“Something has to be done with her.” Mycroft’s throat was stupidly tight, itching and contracting around itself. “Unless you’ve gone completely daft, you know that as well as I do.”

“And something has to be done with you.”

Sherlock’s hand was drifting back down Mycroft’s chest. Mycroft opened his eyes to find Sherlock watching him, eyes nervous and needy, and horrible, delightful tingles ran from Sherlock’s fingertips to Mycroft’s cock.

“That feels too good, Sherlock.”

“It’s just the drug.” Sherlock’s voice was faint and wobbly nonetheless. “It will stop soon enough, and we’ll go back to blissful solitariness.”

The realization made Mycroft’s stomach jolt. “That idea makes you... _sad_.”

“Oh, don’t pretend you know any more about emotion than I do, Mycroft.” Sherlock lifted his hand, and Mycroft’s stomach twisted a second time. “And I thought _I_ was bad.”

Mycroft closed his eyes again. “We are each of us horrible in our own unique ways, Sherlock, and my cock is itching fit to scream. If you’ve nothing of value to add, I think you should leave.”

“And if I’m afraid to leave you alone?”

Mycroft laughed. “My protective baby brother.”

“I did just watch you offer to die to spare me needing to kill my closest friend.” Try as he might, Mycroft could hear no sarcasm in Sherlock’s voice. “I think you know something about protectiveness, and I think I—I think I understand it better now myself.”

“It’s just the drug.”

Sherlock pressed his fingertips into Mycroft’s hipbone, and Mycroft felt the breath leave his lungs as his entire chest threatened to collapse. Sherlock with the gun against his head—Sherlock standing over Magnussen’s body, his scarf rippling in the helicopter’s downdraft—Sherlock, pallid and rigid and grieving, staring at Mary Morstan’s body— _Eurus_ , small and silent in her wrappings in his arms—

Sherlock’s head was warm against Mycroft’s chest, his curls tickling the underside of Mycroft’s chin. Mycroft’s throat had closed entirely, wet and mucousy like his eyes, and it worked frantically to produce sound as Sherlock’s fingers traced their way back and forth around Mycroft’s hips.

“I don’t believe that, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was small and faintly wet itself. “An impressive intellect once told me—under the influence, of course—that my loss would break your heart, and when you stepped forward ready to die, I realized the reverse was also the case, in even the soberest of situations.”

One of Mycroft’s hands tangled itself in Sherlock’s hair, setting off sense memories of innocent childhood evenings long forgotten and ill fitting alongside the blend of relief and arousal surging in Mycroft’s veins. When he could finally speak, it was halting.

“This is wrong. You’re speaking like this, and I believe you, and I can’t tell why I love you from why Eurus’s damned drug also makes me— _want_ —”

Sherlock lifted his head. This close, the steadiness in his eyes was overwhelming.

“Release is release.” Sherlock’s finger drifted along the tip of Mycroft’s cock, and Mycroft groaned. “If you promise me not to bother wasting time on regret later, I will help you now. I assure you—” he tittered “—it is no hardship.”

 _Absolutely not_.

When Mycroft opened his mouth, what came out was “I promise.”

Sherlock’s hand against his prick was absolutely the worst pleasure Mycroft had ever felt, chiefly because it was enjoyable even beyond the instant relief of itchiness, the moans it drew from his mouth. Sherlock’s grip, tight and hot and needy, roughshod with inexperience and undeniably enthusiastic, pulled spasms of delight from Mycroft’s nipples, and his fingers were firm as they slid down to cup Mycroft’s balls.

He could override Sherlock’s touch with someone else’s, plug in the fantasy of David or Andrew or that sweetly useless intern of five summers ago, imagine it was their hands jerking him off so roughly. As Mycroft’s hips lifted, propelling him into Sherlock’s grip, Sherlock spoke, removing all option of pretending elsewise.

“It’s okay.”

A blatant lie—and so soothing to hear, despite Mycroft’s better sense.

“Shh, Mycroft.” Sherlock’s voice was honeyed, soft and...sincere. “It’s okay.”

Mycroft’s hands enveloped Sherlock’s on his cock as he thrust yet harder, his fingers scrabbling along the broad back of Sherlock’s hand. He let the tunnel of darkness around his vision grow lighter with sparks of white.

“You’ve done well.”

Mycroft shivered. Sherlock’s knuckles twisted against Mycroft’s palms, sweat stinging.

“We’re all alive, aren’t we?”

 _Define “all.”_ He, of course, could do no more than grunt, and any case Sherlock chose that moment to look back up at him, smiling.

“The two you care about, anyway.”

Sherlock slid a finger against Mycroft’s entrance, and Mycroft gasped.

“You’re first.”

Sherlock’s grin was lopsided as he ran his trembling finger from Mycroft’s arse to the base of his cock. “I won’t tell her.” He slid his second hand over Mycroft’s, enveloping Mycroft in his brother’s skin, and squeezed until white flared around the edges of Mycroft’s vision again. “Thank you, brother mine.”

Everything was bright and silent as Mycroft came, painting four hands and his abdomen white. His voice was hoarse and gasping as his vision returned, looking down into Sherlock’s grinning face, though his skin still itched.

“How many times do you think—?”

Sherlock glanced at his own cock, still red and hard against his stomach, and grimaced. “You know her better than I do.”

“Sister dear, how long will your brother and I be uncomfortably aroused in each other’s presence?”

Sherlock ran a finger over the tip of his cock and closed his eyes in delight. A swoop went through Mycroft’s loins at the sight of his brother’s pursed lips, his still-stiff cock twitching.

“This will be intolerable.”

Sherlock tightened his grip and thrust into his hand. “I can—try chemistry—”

“You had probably better.” There was both guilt and desire in Mycroft’s voice, and he swallowed before continuing. “Lest we get dragged into something worse.”

“If the second try doesn’t work, I will.” Sherlock gripped his balls and groaned quietly, tilting his head back; Mycroft followed the bounce of his curls, hating the lack of disgust currently in his mind. Sherlock opened one eye and looked up at him. “No regret. You promised.”

Mycroft smiled faintly as he wrapped his hand around his cock again.

“No regret.”

**Author's Note:**

> "Litvinenko" refers to the [ex-KGB/FSB agent](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Poisoning_of_Alexander_Litvinenko) slowly radiation poisoned in London in 2006
> 
> "Virginia Johnson" is, of course, [the famous sexologist](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Virginia_E._Johnson)


End file.
